(Mist surveillance POV)
Snow was a problem.
It swallowed sound, erased tracks, and lied about distance. For a hunter-nin, it was both ally and enemy—but here, in Yuki territory, it favored the prey.
Kirisame Unit Seven had been watching the valley for six days.
No breaches.
No attacks.
No confirmations.
Which meant something was there.
The lead observer lay prone beneath a camouflaged tarp of frost and cloth, breath measured, chakra muted to a whisper. Through a narrow scope etched with Mist sensor seals, the valley appeared empty—just snow and stone and cold.
"Still nothing," a voice murmured through the comm bead.
The observer didn't respond immediately.
He adjusted the lens, filtering out natural temperature variance. That was the trick. Yuki's territory did not hide heat—it reorganized it.
"There," he said quietly.
A distortion near the eastern ridge. Not movement. Absence. A pocket where the cold was too even.
"Mark it," the squad leader replied. "Do not engage."
Another watcher shifted position further downslope, recalibrating a sensor tag embedded in the snow. The tag flickered once—then stabilized.
"That seal wasn't there yesterday," she reported.
"Everything here was here yesterday," the leader said flatly. "We just couldn't see it."
They logged the anomaly.
A third observer tracked chakra flow patterns along the valley edge—subtle fluctuations that suggested controlled circulation rather than ambient weather.
"Multiple users," he said. "Disciplined. No excess output."
"Civilians don't do that," the leader replied.
"Neither do desperate survivors."
Silence followed.
The Mist did not rush bloodlines anymore. That lesson had been paid for in corpses and international incidents. This time, they measured first.
A shape moved at the edge of the compound.
Not a patrol.
Not a civilian.
A single figure, dark against the snow, pausing at intervals too deliberate to be accidental.
The observer tracked her through the scope.
"Female," he said. "Adult. High control. Ice affinity confirmed."
"Engage?" someone asked.
"No," the leader said immediately. "She's bait."
The figure stopped, turned slightly—just enough that her gaze passed over their position.
The observer's pulse spiked.
She shouldn't have been able to see them.
She didn't react. No flare of chakra. No attack.
She simply continued on her way.
The observer exhaled slowly.
"She knows we're here," he said.
"Yes," the leader replied. "And she's letting us stay."
That was worse.
Night fell.
The watchers logged shifts, plotted patrol paths, and mapped probable exits. No aggressive movements. No pursuit triggers.
Just confirmation.
"This isn't a remnant," the leader said quietly as he finalized the report. "It's a holding pattern."
"Orders?" someone asked.
The leader sealed the scroll.
"Continue observation. No contact. Forward all data to command."
He paused, then added:
"And request clearance for escalation."
Far from the valley, a report would be read by men who had never felt this cold, never seen snow behave like a living thing.
They would not understand restraint.
Only opportunity.
And in the silence of the mountains, the eyes on the snow did not blink.